She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. "Well," she said, in reply, "I may have done Jack an injustice. As soon as he had read it, he let it fall from his grasp. There one is! The same stuff still! One has a craving in one’s blood, a craving roused, cut off from its redeeming and guiding emotional side. His hair is oddly streaked with gray —I might say a dishonourable gray. As Jack departed, a dark figure, emerging from behind a wall, rushed after him. Sheppard despairingly. The sky beyond was a surreal color of pink that reminded her of the windows she had once been entranced by at the castle chapel, their leaden lines depicting old religious stories and sufferings. He remained talking with her however. He stepped in with a heavy foreboding of calamity.
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